


Wizards and Assistants, and Cats

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall hires a new assistant - he very much intends not to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wizards and Assistants, and Cats

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost of a series of tumblr fics I wrote ages ago. thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! you can find me at [extravirgo](http://extravirgo.tumblr.com).

[PART ONE: IN WHICH THEY MEET]

 

“What did your last slave die of?” grumbles the cat, as he picks up a dead newt between sharp teeth and trots over, nose wrinkled high. “You know, when we came to a mutual agreement of being companions, it wasn’t on my part an agreement to do anything for you. Or no more than my presence brings, anyway.” Ptolemy nudges the newt over with one blue-grey paw and settles back down at the back of Niall’s work bench, eyes slitted.

“Stop your whining,” Niall says absently, using a small paring knife to wick out the newt’s eyeballs. “You know it’s only temporary until I find an assistant.” He drops the eyeballs into the little pewter cauldron he’s got bubbling in front of him; the mixture inside turns a sickly yellow colour.

Ptolemy yawns and flicks his tail. “That’s what you said last month. Have you actually done any work towards finding a replacement for Barbara?”

Niall bristles and stirs the mixture a little more vigorously than he means to, causing too many bubbles that pop and singe his flopping blond fringe. “I put an ad out,” he grumbles, pushing his hair back and glancing guiltily up at his companion.

“Did you get any replies?” prods the cat, pushing back to sit up and starting to lick his paw. He crinkles his nose; it tastes like dead newt and stale beer.

Niall steps back from the miniature cauldron and shoves his hands back through his hair, expression exasperated. “Yes, one, but he’s got no experience, apparently very little magical power and he answered the question “what skills and experience do you think you could bring to the job?” with “I make very good coffee and I have a positive attitude; I can also make candles”.’ Niall rolls his eyes and frowns as his potion gives a disapproving gurgle.

Ptolemy wipes his wet paw behind his ear, expression bored. “I don’t care if he’s five foot two and weak as a kitten, I refuse to be your dogsbody one day longer, Niall. Bring him in.”

Niall grunts and tips his failed potion down the sink, grimacing as half of it slops down his work robes and lets off a putrid, sulphuric smell as it burns through them. “Fine! Fine, you always get your way,” he yells, whipping the robes off and inspecting the nasty yellow stain the potion’s left on his white t-shirt. “I’ll ask him in tomorrow.”

“Good. If you need me, I’ll be napping on the second-floor landing.” Ptolemy sniffs haughtily at Niall’s stained, smelly robes and trots off, blue-grey fur gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.

-//-

Niall sends his applicant, one Harry Styles (originally from Holmes Chapel in Cheshire and a graduate of Gabble’s Academy for Young Wizards and Witches, a well-respected if slightly progressive and “organic” institution, as Niall’s very traditional mammy would call it), a message via his messenger pigeon that afternoon, asking him to come in the next morning, preferably after eleven.

Niall’s still in his pyjama trousers, sans shirt, and clutching a giant mug of coffee when there’s the clang of the ancient doorbell out front.

Ptolemy slinks in from the back garden, covered in pollen and making Niall sneeze, his coffee swilling precariously. “It’s a boy,” he pronounces in a plummy voice, like a doctor at a birth.

“Dick,” Niall mutters as the cat then turns on his heel and struts back out again. Setting his coffee down on the large wooden kitchen table, Niall makes his way out into the hall and down to the

entrance, just as the doorbell goes again. Whoever it is seems to think that pulling harder will make it louder and there’s the distinct sound of wire snapping and then some colourful swearing.

“What the hell,” Niall groans, swinging one half of the doors open and staring down into his front step at the young man standing there.

He’s probably not much younger than Niall; fairly tall and gangly, with big hands and feet and big Bambi-like eyes. In one of his hands, he’s clutching the skull-shaped bell-ringer. In the other, he’s clutching the strap of his black leather back pack.

He looks more like he should be rocking up to fashion week, with his skinny jeans and big, wool lined denim jacket, rather than at the doorstep of a wizard.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says, in a surprisingly deep voice. He thrusts the bell-ringer out to Niall, his round cheeks going red. “I don’t always know my own strength.”

Niall takes it from him, brows furrowed deeply. “Who are you?” he asks, more rudely than he means. He’s usually very polite and friendly - a soft heart, his mammy says - but he’s not had his morning coffee and he’s got a reputation down in town to keep up.

The young man shuffles from foot to foot and smiles awkwardly, a crater-like dimple popping in his cheek. “Harry Styles,” he says brightly, sticking a hand out.

Niall’s not a total heathen, so he shakes it and steps back into the entrance gesturing Harry inside. “You’re early,” he says with a yawn, starting back up to the kitchen and expecting Harry to follow him.

Ptolemy’s taken up residence in the middle of the table, next to the fruit bowl. As Niall picks up his coffee and waves a hand over it to cast a gentle warming charm, Harry makes a melty face and starts scratching the cat roughly behind the ears.

“Careful, he’s -” Niall was going to say vicious, but Ptolemy starts up a purr like a revving racing car, pushing his head up into Harry’s large palm and almost writhing against the table. Niall feels almost betrayed, but more than that he’s impressed.

“Cats like me,” Harry says simply, shooting Niall a shy grin. He’s got a nice mouth.

Niall suddenly feels very aware of his naked chest and coughs, rubbing at his abs and gulping at his warmed coffee. “We need to talk about what you can do,” he starts nervously, as Harry plucks a banana from the fruit bowl and starts to peel it, back to front.

“I can do basic charms, glamours and I’m not bad with potions if you tell me what to do,” Harry says quickly, like he’s rehearsed it in his head. He takes a big bite of the banana and Niall blushes. “And like I said, I make candles, for calming and inspiration and sex and stuff,” he carries on, around the banana.

Niall just nods, staring fascinated at the movement of his mouth. There’s so much banana in there. “That sounds great,” he murmurs.

Harry lights up like a Christmas tree and drops the banana skin on the table, before clasping his hands together in front of him and affecting a hopeful look. “Really? Because I don’t have anywhere to live right now so if you hire me that would be very convenient. I have everything with me. I could make you dinner.”

Niall takes a deep breath, suddenly with the sensation that he’s accidentally gulped down a potion he doesn’t know the effects of, but Ptolemy’s already talking.

“That’s perfect Harry. You’ll have the room in the East Wing, overlooking the orchard,” he purrs, nudging his head against Harry’s hand and humming when he gets a scritch to the scalp for his troubles.

“Wait just a second,” Niall says and Harry’s face falls, his curls seeming to droop. It’s like the warmth that had filled the kitchen actually seeps out and Niall stops himself, his heart doing a nasty little flip-flop. “Is that really everything you’ve got?” he asks quietly, gesturing to Harry’s backpack.

The warmth floods back in and Ptolemy makes a noise of approval. Harry smiles nervously and swings his backpack around, unzipping it. “It’s bigger on the inside,” he jokes, before pulling out a tatty little cardboard box marked with the word “HOME”. He hands it to Niall, eyes shy.

“Uh,” Niall says, as he peels back the slightly oily flaps and pulls out a glass jar, filled with mint- green wax. “Thank you?”

Harry swipes his long curls back and makes a snuffly noise, expression abashed. “I made it, it gives you that homely feeling,” he explains, smiling down when Ptolemy makes an impressed noise. “I thought - if you’d let this be my home too. I’ll help you out wherever I can and I’ll make you meals and I’ll do pretty much anything you ask,” he adds earnestly.

Niall lifts the lid of the glass jar and gives it a sniff; it smells like sunshine and freshly mown grass and his heart pumps. “Alright,” he says, smiling up at Harry slowly. “Alright, yeah, you can be my assistant. And this can be your home.”

Harry nearly knocks him over with how he barrels into him for a hug, smelling of woodsmoke and the outdoors and happiness.

 

[PART TWO: IN WHICH THERE IS YOGHURT, AND MERMAID HAIR]

 

Niall wakes up one morning and Harry seems to have decided the honeymoon period is over. No more, it seems, are the excessively sweet coffees and heart-disease flavoured fry-ups, lovingly laid out on the kitchen table with a mackerel boned and flaked onto a plate for Ptolemy.

“Should have known it was too good to be true,” he laments to the cat, chin in hand, as Harry bustles over to the table with a mug full of hot water steeped in what looks like the contents of Niall’s herb garden.

“It’s nettle, blackberry leaf and coriander,” Harry says firmly, bringing over his own mug and setting it down next to Niall’s. “And to eat I got up extra early to go into town and buy some natural yogurt and fruit.” He brandishes a bunch of bananas, like a magician with flowers.

“Not one sausage?” asks Niall slyly, because if one thing is likely to make Harry cave, it’s a dirty pun.

It’s a close-run thing; Harry goes almost pink with pleasure and snorts like a pig, but then he scowls down at Niall. The effect is ruined somewhat by his hair being tied back into a bun, with one of Niall’s mammy’s scarves, this one patterned with pastel watercolours and daisies. Niall’s not sure where Harry found all of them; possibly he’s been rooting about in the attic on his off-time.

“No sausage,” Harry says firmly and then turns on his heel to stomp over to the AGA, where Niall can see two bowls half-full of lamentably plain yoghurt.

“It’ll be good for your digestion,” says Ptolemy snootily, from where he’s stretched out along one of the sideboards.

“You think you’ll still be getting fresh fish and cream?” asks Niall nastily, wagging a finger at the feline. “Nah, he’ll have you on organic cat biscuits and slivers of tuna for a treat.”

Ptolemy yawns and rolls his eyes, flopping onto his back to let the morning sunshine warm his belly. “Harry knows how important it is for me to get my omega3,” he says boredly, as the boy himself comes back to their side of the room and plonks down his own and Niall’s bowls. “Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry pushes some errant curls out of his eyes and frowns. “Isn’t what right?” he asks slowly, pulling a little pot of honey from his shirt pocket and setting it down in front of Niall with a small, apologetic smile. Niall feels his neck get hot.

“That you won’t be changing my diet,” purrs Ptolemy, arching his belly plaintively.

Harry’s eyes go soft at the edges like a soggy beer mat and he scratches over the skin with his long fingers. “No, fish is good for cats, you need as much of it as possible,” he says solemnly. “Although I have been neglecting your biscuits so I’ll be giving you a bowl of those too and you’ll have to eat them.”

“If I must,” sighs the cat, with a little huff of pleasure as Harry rolls his palm over his ears.

Niall gapes, his hands clenching into fists on the table. “What about me? What about my omega3?” he squawks, flushing when Harry gives him an odd look and Ptolemy practically sneers at him from underneath Harry’s arm.

“Well, you can have oily fish for breakfast if you want, it is good for brain power and you’d probably feel a lot better in the studio,” he says slowly, clearly gearing up to the idea.

Niall can see Ptolemy laughing at him as he quickly backtracks, shaking his head and piling his spoon high with natural yoghurt. “No, I was joking, I prefer fruit,” he says around the spoon, as he stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.

Harry blinks at him, as his face twists and scrunches around the taste and texture. “That’s why I brought the honey and fruit,” he says soothingly, as Niall swallows with some difficulty and puts a hand gingerly over his stomach.

“I think it’s off,” he says weakly, as Harry brandishes a ripe banana and a knife at him.

-//-

Apart from the shocking meal changes at the beginning of that second month, things are largely constant. Harry isn’t hugely adept at magic - or at least, not at Niall’s kind, which is very traditional and what his mammy calls “solid”. Harry’s is what she would call “airy” and possibly “fairy”; he doesn’t use a wand or any kind of talisman, for one, or have a companion (although Niall wonders these days if he’s just stolen Ptolemy).

Most of what he does is to do with moods and energies and something he describes as, “you know, the flexibility of the currents in the air, the intangible ones”. Niall does not know and the more Harry tries to frustratedly explain it, the less Niall wants to know. He’s not like his mammy, of course; he’s got no disrespect for Harry’s kind of magic, it’s just that it’s not all that useful to him.

If Harry minds this infraction on his usefulness, he never shows it; he makes Niall a trio of candles, all of them a sweet primrose yellow, fat and a little wonky but bound to last a long time, and sets them up in the three corners of his triangular studio, in the West Wing of the house.

“Thank you,” Niall says dubiously, as Harry hovers his hands over them to get them to light, shooting Niall an adorably proud look.

“It took me a while to make them, because they’re a little stronger than I’d usually do and I wanted to put a slight twist in them,” Harry confesses, as he settles down on his stool next to Niall’s.

Niall raises an eyebrow in question, already passing Harry a little sack of dung beetles for him to begin crushing with his pestle and mortar, he himself flipping a dead toad onto it’s back to gut.

“They’re for encouraging inspiration and creativity,” says Harry slowly, rolling back the sleeves of his white cheesecloth shirt. Niall’s pretty sure it’s the one his dad called about the other week, asking if he might be able to find it and forward it on to Cairo, his and Niall’s mammy’s next stop. “But I also put in some rosemary and newt intestine for enhancing natural talent.”

Niall makes a face. “Newt intestines are rancid,” he groans, using a scalpel to slit the belly of the toad.

Harry gets to work, using a surprising amount of elbow grease to grind the beetles. That’s one thing Niall underestimated him on; he’s no slacker, he puts his all into everything. “They’ve got plenty of citrus oils in them,” Harry grunts, his curls flopping over his already-pink cheeks. “They’ll smell amazing.”

Niall shrugs and flicks a bit of toad gristle into his hair, making him shriek and topple off of his stool.

-//-

Niall comes down into the kitchen one morning, not long after his diet has been overturned by Harry, and is surprised to find a lack of seeds, yoghurt, chopped fruit and steaming herbal teas set out on the table. He’s horrified to find himself actually disappointed at this, his belly grumbling and his mouth already watering for the Wednesday treat of fresh mango and a raspberry and juniper tea.

 _Who have I become?_ he wonders mournfully, as he sticks his head out of the open back door and finds Harry sitting on the unkempt grass just in front of the rubble that used to be a patio.

Harry’s hair is the colour of bleached seaweed; something like a mermaid, Niall thinks.

“Harry?” he asks tentatively, stepping carefully over the rubble to get to the grass. He can see Ptolemy cradled in the cross of his legs now; the cat looks up at him with an exaggerated scowl and Niall flips him the finger before he comes around to where Harry can see him.

“What?” Harry’s voice sounds suspiciously thick and he won’t look up; for once he’s not pinned his curls back with a headscarf or fastened into a bun, so Niall can’t actually see his face, covered as it is with thick twists of pale aqua hair.

Niall feels alarmed and he scratches nervously at the cropped nape of his neck. “Your hair?” he asks eventually, not sure what else to say.

Harry hiccoughs and the hand that was buried into Ptolemy’s thick blue-grey fur disappears beneath his hair to rub at his eyes. “Did you think it would be funny?” he asks roughly and Niall feels sick all of a sudden, his mouth dropping open.

“You think I did this?” he asks, angrier than he means to be. It’s fucking cold though and he’s just in a flimsy crew neck and his pyjama trousers. He’s not even got bloody shoes on and there’s a thistle scratching at his left big toe.

Harry sniffles again and finally looks up, pushing his brightly dyed hair out of the way; he looks pale and tired, but his eyes are bright red, speckled and blotchy down to his cheekbones. “I know you think everything I do is a bit hokey and airy fairy,” he says thickly, a deep line appearing between his eyebrows.

Niall makes a sputtering noise, trying to deny it, but Harry just rolls his puffy eyes and shakes his head. “You do,” he says insistently and Niall shuts up, because he’s given Harry this impression somehow. “But you don’t have to make fun of me by switching up my shampoos.” Harry rubs roughly at his eye and without thinking Niall yanks his hand away.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says quietly. “I never switched up your shampoos, but I’m sorry. I know I’m a bit dismissive of what you do and it’s not fair.”

“No, especially not since you’ve been getting more tips since he put those talent-enhancing candles in your studio,” drawls Ptolemy from Harry’s lap, eyeing Niall with his usual disdain, though it feels a little more warranted this morning. Harry’s pale cheeks go a little pink.

“He’s right,” says Niall, although the words are like dragging nails through his throat. Ptolemy makes a pleased rumble and Niall knows he won’t be living that down. “You’ve been a real help and I haven’t been grateful.”

Harry bites his lip and shrugs bashfully. “Dunno what happened to my hair then,” he mutters, scooping the cat up into his arms and shakily getting to his feet. He’s wearing a baggy old Black Sabbath t-shirt and boxers that Niall thinks might both be his. He must be freezing.

Ptolemy wriggles and jumps down to the ground, trotting back inside and leaving them there with a mutter of, “idiots.” Niall gives him the V from behind, the cheeky old mog.

“I know you might not have done it on purpose,” Harry says slowly, as he follows the cat in through the back door. Niall can see goosebumps on the backs of his thighs and knees. “But are you sure you didn’t fill up a plain plastic bottle with one of your potions? I swear we were working on a changeable dye for that girl Eliza, down in town.”

Niall locks the back door behind them and pushes Harry down into a chair, before going to fill up the kettle. “Yeah,” he hums thoughtfully, as he flicks the switch and the water starts to grumble. Ptolemy is nowhere to be seen, but Niall can smell smoked salmon that Harry must have put out for him before he skulked outside. “It’s meant to change to fit your personality though,” he says, looking at the spacey, soft colour of Harry’s curls. “Well, maybe you’re right.”

Harry blushes and then sniffs. “I needed a new bottle that day, I must have just picked up the one you swapped out by coincidence. I keep them next to all the stock, because it’s cooler.”

Niall rolls his eyes and plucks two of Harry’s homemade teabags from the jar next to the AGA. “Well that’s just asking for trouble, you eejit,” he says fondly, as Harry laughs, shaking his hair out and swiping it to the side. It’s longer than Niall had realised, almost to his collarbones when it's not scooped up and kept out of the way.  Enough to tangle your whole hands in, Niall supposes - not that he's thinking of that, of course.

“I’ll move them,” Harry says, with a shrug. “Keep them with my candles and stuff.”

Niall brings their mugs over and sits adjacent to Harry. “I’ll mix you up an ointment for your eyes, you’ve roughed the skin up,” he says quietly, as Harry swirls his teabag around with pinched fingers. “I ... Shouldn’t have acted like I have, given you reason to think it would have been malicious.”

Harry shakes his head, tip of his nose going red with the steam from his tea. “It’s alright, just ... Open your mind a bit,” he says, giving Niall half a smile and one dimple.

“Maybe open yours, that hair is kind of nice on you,” Niall says cheekily, reaching over to tug on one of Harry’s curls, his stomach clenching when Harry just goes with it, tipping his head and smiling helplessly.

When he looks away, he finds Ptolemy shaking his head at him, eyes disgusted. “Fuck off,” he says loudly, cringing when Harry slaps his arm and reaches out a big hand for Ptolemy to come nuzzle at.

 

[PART THREE: IN WHICH THERE ARE TATTOOS, AND RED WINE]

 

Niall is surprised when he finds out Harry knows more about Zayn than he does. They pop down to the apothecary in town every Sunday morning at eleven on the dot; spend thirty minutes picking out what they need and paying; and then they troop off to the pub, both of them lugging significantly heavier backpacks and the craving for a lunch of ploughman’s and beer. Niall sometimes has a real ale; Harry almost always has a Peroni, because he thinks he’s posh and he likes the tall glass it comes in.

But back to Zayn, who manages the apothecary on Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays; and, according to a very bashful Harry, works in a tattoo parlour every other day of the week. Niall pauses with his 1664 halfway to his mouth when Harry casually mentions this.

‘And how would you know?’ he asks suspiciously, looking to his side instinctively for Ptolemy and an inevitable eye roll. He’s relieved when he finds nothing, Ptolemy being back at the house and probably listening to Berlioz, rolling around on the fur rug spread out along the bottom of Harry’s bed and sniffing at the little catnip candle Harry made him for his seventeenth birthday.

Harry tears at a piece of bread and uses his knife to sliver a bit of cheese to go on top, ignoring Niall’s inquisitive eyes. ‘I’ve been in there a couple of times, had some bits done,’ he confesses quietly, before stuffing his mouth full of cheese and artisan bread, his cheeks flooding a dark red.

Niall takes a long draught of his beer and prods disconsolately at a weeping tomato. ‘You never told me you’d got any tattoos done,’ he says roughly. ‘I mean you do live with me and work with me Harry.’

Harry swallows his mouthful and pulls the sleeves of his mink brown jumper over his thumbs, biting his lip. ‘I just – I told Ptolemy and he said you hated tattoos,’ he says plaintively and Niall’s brow darkens, his eyes shifting to stare out of the window over Harry’s shoulder. ‘Should I not have listened?’ Harry asks, nonplussed.

‘Fucking bastard cat,’ Niall mutters, before turning back to Harry and shrugging, a hand damp with condensation from his beer reaching over to pat his arm. ‘No, it’s not your fault, the cat’s just mad. Off his rocker. I inherited him from my uncle, my mammy’s brother. You wouldn’t believe it, but he lives in a hut on Gweebarra Bay in Donegal with a frog called Viking and only one pair of socks to see him through each winter. Apparently he’s waiting for the mermaid that stole his heart when he was fifteen.’

Harry’s staring with his mouth half open, pale green eyes wide with fascination. Niall warms to his subject considerably. ‘Anyhow,’ he continues, ‘when I turned ten, rather than getting me my own familiar, Mammy just went off to her brother’s hut and stole this young cat he’d been given a year or so earlier, called Ptolemy. He’d been with my uncle too long though, and now he’s as wet around the brain as a jellyfish.’

Harry takes a swig of his Peroni and skates the pad of his finger down through the condensation. ‘He seems pretty sharp to me,’ he says slowly, a small smile twitching at the corners of his pink mouth. ‘And you still haven’t told me whether you hate tattoos or not.’

Niall scoffs, flicking a piece of lettuce into Harry’s face, where it comes to rest hanging from the tip of his nose. ‘I don’t hate tattoos. I already know you’ve got older ones anyway, you fool,’ he says, laughing as Harry puffs air out of his mouth to blow the lettuce off his face. It lands in his Peroni.

‘Suppose you do,’ says Harry thoughtfully. ‘You want to see the new ones then?’ he asks curiously, stuffing the last piece of bread into his mouth and swallowing it down with a gulp of lettuce- flavoured beer. ‘Zayn’s so sick, his artwork is great and he puts a bit extra in, you know?’

Niall ignores the little knot in his belly and the voice in his head, upsettingly similar to his cat’s, saying to be careful. ‘Sick,’ he says weakly, leaning back in his chair.

Harry sort of curls his shoulder in and pops it out over the collar of his already stretched-out jumper, until the neckline is stretched over the top of his pec. ‘These,’ he says, voice warped by how he’s twisted himself. The tattoos are a set of runes, all in a line, little black etchings that seem to flicker and change depending on how you look at them.

‘Runes for health and runes for peace,’ Niall says absently, returning Harry’s pleased smile when he gives it and leaning in despite himself. He can smell Harry’s skin from here, soft cocoa butter and tangy, fresh sweat from their walk. He’s pale, this far into winter, but there’s a lingering sheen from his golden summer tan. Niall coughs and leans back, scratching his head. ‘They’re sick,’ he says, feeling like broken record.

‘I know, took a little while what with the double layering effect, but Zayn’s cool,’ Harry says slowly, as he stands up and starts to lift his jumper, revealing the pale, soft expanse of skin beneath. Niall can see the tips of the wings of his fluttering moth, just where Harry’s pinned his hem to his body with one hand; beneath that it’s mostly clear skin. Niall feels the back of his neck get hot at the realisation that Harry’s shaved the hair from his navel down to his crotch; his old skinny jeans hang too low not to notice. ‘This one,’ he says unnecessarily, pointing down to the bundle of pale- coloured, delicate plants drawn along his right v-line.

Niall automatically sets to working out what the plants actually are, rather than focusing on the steady rise of Harry’s stomach, or the slenderness of his hips. ‘Sage for wisdom, Angelica for inspiration, heather for ... luck? And thyme for courage,’ he says quickly, smirking smugly when Harry makes a pleased noise. ‘I know my plants.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you had much time for this sort, they’re not used much in modern potions and spells,’ Harry says, dropping his jumper and settling down in his seat again. His collar’s still stretched out, the shadow of his clavicle peeking through.

Niall drains his pint and shrugs. ‘Everything’s useful and got its place,’ he says firmly and Harry beams wide, his feet coming forward to knock happily at Niall’s ankles.

-//-

Winter marches on and October passes into November. For Niall and Harry, business starts to boom, as people from the town and everywhere around pop in at all hours to order spells and potions and bewitchments in advance for their loved ones’ gifts. Harry’s rushed off his feet just as much as Niall, if not more, making home deliveries and going out on errands sometimes for days at a time to collect ingredients. Niall can’t help but notice how, when he’s going off into the woods to collect mushrooms and occasionally fox dung, he rubs at the tattoo on his hip. Niall had never believed what people said about magical tattoos actually being able to have an effect on anything, but Harry always comes back with what he set out to find.

‘Do they ... ’ Niall begins slowly, feeling a little embarrassed at having to ask at all.

They’re sitting on the sofa in the small snug in the living side of the house, both with large glasses of Malbec and a big bowl of salted popcorn between them. Harry’s got another of Niall’s mammy’s scarves tying most of his curls back; this one Niall recognises, because it’s the one his Da got her for her fortieth birthday. Green and gold and pale cream, it’s not a particular pattern so much as a marbling of colours, but Niall remembers his mammy nearly being in tears over the opulent length of it, hitting his Da hard on the arm for daring to buy something so extravagant for her.

It suits Harry, in his fluffy grey cashmere (it could be Niall’s, but the size suggests it’s another of the ill-fitting ones Harry brought with him, pilfered from who knows where) and ripped, skin-tight black skinny jeans. Niall had asked him, early on, if he wasn’t at all uncomfortable walking around in trousers that tight all the time (Niall certainly found it uncomfortable, when he was faced with Harry bending over to sweep up another broken glass, arse thrust up in the air with nothing to hide its roundness from Niall’s eyes); Harry had just laughed and proceeded to demonstrate something that might have been ballet. Butchered ballet.

Either way, Harry apparently feels very comfortable in his jeans that show off more flesh than your average pair of swimming trunks, ripped as they are.

‘Do they what?’ asks Harry sleepily, cramming a load of popcorn into his mouth and chewing rather like a dozy cow with a mouthful of cud. It’s adorable.

‘Do they like ... those tattoos you got, the plant ones, when you rub them do they work?’ he asks slowly. His mouth feels thick and dry with red wine and he rolls his eyes at himself, since Ptolemy seems to have gone to bed already.

Harry wiggles back into the sofa and flings one leg over Niall’s curled up thighs, his large, socked foot coming to tickle at Niall’s arm. ‘Yep, they work,’ he says firmly, stupid smile dimpling his cheek something deep. ‘And if I rub them extra hard – ’ he starts, already slow speech gone to treacle with drink, leaving enough time for Niall to lean over and slap a hand over his mouth, snorting.

‘I know where you’re going with that, filthy beggar, stop it,’ he laughs, digging his fingertips and thumb into Harry’s cheeks harder when he feels a tongue wet against his palm. Harry’s eyes look soft and drunk, so Niall lets go. He’s got pink marks pressed into his skin now; little pressure- points dotted down one cheek, one on the other where Niall’s thumb was.

‘That hurt.’ Harry pouts and rolls his head onto the back of the brown suede sofa, more and more curls tumbling free of his scarf.

Niall takes a swig of his Malbec and leans down to set it on the floor. ‘Better kiss it better then,’ he says, starting to slur. Harry doesn’t move, his eyes staying trained on Niall through the dark sweep of his eyelashes. Without thinking it through anymore, Niall leans over the popcorn bowl and presses a soft, slightly wine-damp kiss to Harry’s cheek; and then another and another, where his fingers had been. Harry smells like the candle sitting on the coffee table in front of them (for relaxation and calming after work) and the Eritrean Bitter Pods he was deseeding for Niall just before they finished working for the day.

‘And the other one,’ murmurs Harry, turning his head slightly so that Niall can press his lips over where his thumb was. Harry’s cheeks are soft and fuzzy like a peach’s skin; barely a hint of stubble across his jaw. His lips are stained with red wine and wet where he’s just licked at them, glinting with the light of the table lamp and the flicker of the candle.

Better judgement and a history of bad decisions like this force Niall to sit back, rather than pressing forward with a kiss to Harry’s inviting lips. ‘I should go to bed,’ he finds himself saying, his brain helpfully playing over the events of nearly a year ago, when Barbara moved out and back to Hungary with a flurry of apologies and hurriedly packed suitcases. He never used to be so cautious.

Harry blinks at him slowly and nods, a slightly sad smile quirking his lips. ‘Yeah, probably,’ he says, tracing a long, Bitter Pod-stained finger around the rim of his wine glass.

‘Probably,’ Niall repeats. Suddenly, his hands feel wine-clumsy as he pushes up from the sofa and goes to twist the handle of the door and get out, leaving Harry with the popcorn and a look of pure disappointment on his pretty face.

On the way up the stairs, he passes the cat, clearly on his way back from getting a drink of water from the kitchen. ‘Don’t think I didn’t hear or see that debacle,’ he snaps, scampering a few stairs up from Niall to get some height advantage and glowering down with greenish-yellow eyes. Wincing, Niall looks away and leans against the bannister, looking down over the edge to find that Harry’s still not left the room. ‘If you mess this up,’ Ptolemy warns in a hiss and Niall scrubs his hands over his cheeks, shaking his head.

‘That’s what I’m trying not to do,’ he says as quietly as he can, imagining Harry forlornly draining the dregs of his Malbec and picking at the holes in his jeans, disconsolate. He’d looked so nice in Niall’s mammy’s scarf.

Ptolemy makes a clucking sound and flicks his tail, eyes raised to the ceiling. ‘Absolutely useless,’ he starts to mutter, standing up off his haunches and turning towards his room. ‘Absolute idiot, I can’t bear it, I belong to a fool.’ He looks over his shoulder at Niall, ears cocked at a condescending angle. ‘Harry told me what you said about me being wet around the brain like a jellyfish,’ he says coldly and Niall has the decency to blush. ‘But quite frankly, Niall, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the only one with jelly for brains, is you.’

[PART FOUR: IN WHICH THERE IS A JUMPER, AND A LOT OF CANDLES]

As November ends and December arrives with a flurry of unexpected snowflakes and a sharp chill, Niall rolls up his sleeves and sets to actually sorting out the plumbing and central heating. Harry can barely move his arms to chop up purple xoppapods with the amount of jumpers he’s taken to wearing; and sometimes in the morning, his lips look a little blue. Niall’s used to the Arctic temperature of his home, it’s been this way for so long, but Harry hovering his fingers over the kettle when it’s boiling to try and warm them makes his mind up.

It takes the whole first week of the month. Paying Ptolemy with thick slices of the Christmas smoked salmon he’d paid an arm and a leg for from the local fishmongers, Niall manages to force him to help out Harry in the workshop with some of the more complicated orders, while Niall goes around the whole house draining the radiators. He solders pipes back together and thins rust, the veins in his wrists pulsing by the end of each day with how much magic he’s having to force through them for continuous periods of time.

At the end of the week, with the heating turned up so high it’s almost tropical, Harry plants sloppy kisses all over his cheeks and gives him a thank you present. It’s a lumpy, badly knitted jumper in cream with grey flecks; and a large, misshapen reindeer has been knitted onto the front. The reindeer makes an odd mooing sound, when Niall presses hesitantly at its fluffy red nose.

‘Did you make this?’ he asks, half laughing and half – not impressed, but fond and proud, despite himself.

Harry settles down on the sofa and starts to pour out the Shiraz Niall had bought on offer from the independent shop down the back of the high street; the label is the shape of a crystal ball, the words Mystic Vineyard printed around the curve and Sorcerous Shiraz in the middle. ‘I might have,’ he answers Niall bashfully, the way his body naturally preens giving him away.

‘It’s brilliant,’ Niall says staunchly and promptly pulls it on over his t-shirt. It’s a little too big, maybe; too broad in the shoulder and long in the torso. The reindeer shifts moodily on the front and grunts softly. ‘Animating magic’s not easy,’ he adds, just to see Harry beam and flap his big hands about in the air, cheeks staying pink.

‘Shut up, shut up. I got the idea from that Advent calendar we made a couple of weeks ago? That and you haven’t got any jumpers, which at this time of year is a criminal offence. The police could have come a knocking any day.’ Harry affects a grave expression and ruins it by glugging red wine and dripping it down his cheeks in his enthusiasm.

Niall laughs and plonks himself down opposite Harry, picking up the big glass he’s been poured. He needs it, after all that work; he feels drained and tired and he knows that as soon as his head hits the pillow tonight, he’s going to be out cold. ‘That’s good,’ he sighs, when the first mouthful’s down and Harry hums in agreement. His own eyelids are already drooping, the new-found heat of the house probably doing nothing to help keep him awake.

‘I needed to ask you a question,’ he mumbles, curling back into the sofa and tucking his legs up around himself like a soft, pretty spider. Niall hums for him to continue. ‘Well, one of the ladies, she came down from Manchester today, think her name was Matilda Spod. Anyway, she saw some of the candles I have down in the reception room? The lavender and sloth’s spit ones that have some basic relaxation and calming elements to them.’ Niall nods, struggling to keep his eyes open, though Harry appears to be working himself up more and more, his free hand plucking restlessly at the hole at the thigh of his jeans. ‘She asked if she could have one and I said of course, because I had the trial one left over anyway and then – she wouldn’t take no for an answer when I told her she didn’t have to pay and she ended up giving me like a hundred quid for it.’ Harry stops and glugs his wine, though his eyes continue to track Niall obsessively.

Popping one eye open, Niall raises an eyebrow. ‘Hundred, eh? Is it worth that much?’ he asks shrewdly.

Harry pouts and tucks a stray curl back beneath his headscarf (an old favourite he brought with him, decorated with various illustrations from an old encyclopaedia on plant life). ‘No, it’s worth more,’ he grumbles, swilling his wine and avoiding Niall’s gaze. ‘Sloth’s spit is worth a hundred a gram by itself, I just know a supplier who sends it me cheap.’

Niall isn’t sure he wants to know who can afford to be giving Harry rare ingredient’s like sloth’s spit for less than half its usual retail price. ‘Well, don’t sell yourself short next time,’ Niall berates, nudging at Harry’s thigh with his toe. It’s squishy, despite the tight denim.

Harry blinks and tugs on his lip. ‘You don’t mind me selling my stuff, then?’ he asks slowly. ‘Course not.’ Niall rolls his eyes. ‘Why would I mind?’

‘Well, this is your business,’ Harry says apologetically, before draining the dregs of his wine and setting the glass down on the coffee table.

‘No, it’s ours, you’re a big part of this too now,’ says Niall, surprised at Harry’s view of himself as backseat. ‘I’d be happy for you to sell your stuff alongside, anyway, put more of your own stamp on the catalogue.’ Smiling toothily, he links their ankles and strokes the underside of Harry’s calf with his toe.

Going pliant, Harry relaxes back into the sofa. ‘I’ll draw up a price list tomorrow,’ he says sleepily.

-//-

Over the next few weeks, candles start popping up literally everywhere in the house; from all along the kitchen windowsill, to the various tables placed about the corridors of the house and often into Niall’s bedroom. He feels a bit weird, thinking about Harry in his bedroom, moving his stuff around to make space for his candles. Some are short and fat; some long and thin; some both long and fat; and one is about the size of Niall’s head, coloured a deep, blood red that unsettles him. The smell is overwhelming, even with none of them lit; a cacophony of emotions twisting up the air until Niall escapes out into the chilly, frosty garden for a breath of fresh air.

Harry apologises so much Niall nearly snaps at him for it. Managing to keep his snipes to himself, he instead explains patiently each time that people have ordered them; and the monetary pay off will be worth it. Niall doesn’t think about how a third of all orders usually get cancelled, because he doesn’t know what they’ll do with the excess and also he couldn’t bear to see Harry’s face fall into something other than the sunny smile he’s been sporting for the past four days.

Thank god for small mercies, Harry seems to have at least themed rooms; certain rooms have candles with various strengths and focuses of calming, relaxation and mediating candles; others aimed at flooding the mind with inspiration, or giving the body new energy. Harry’s room, when Niall brings him a cup of tea on Friday morning, is full of candles that promote happiness and positivity. As soon as Niall steps through the door, he feels his spirits lift and a helpless smile twitch at his lips.

Harry’s curled up fully underneath his duvet, but he seems to sniff the tea out and peeks his sleep- puffy eyes out over the top of his duvet and blanket to check he’s correct. ‘I love you,’ he croaks, pushing himself back against the headboard and reaching out grabby hands for his big, green- spotted mug. The duvet gets tucked beneath his armpits, showing off his swallow tattoos and the clutch of jasmine decorated down his bicep.

Flushing, Niall hides his face as he clambers up onto the end of the huge bed, keeping his own mug as steady as possible. ‘S’alright,’ he says gruffly, settling himself down by the lump of Harry’s feet. Taking in the rest of his surroundings fully, he finds the cat curled up right at the bottom of the bed, eyes narrowed at him sleepily. ‘Oh, so that’s where you’ve been sleeping,’ he says sneeringly.

Ptolemy yawns and shifts his eyes to Harry for some reason, as he says, ‘Well, I can hardly stand to be in your room right now, Niall. Those candles make me dizzy.’

Snorting, Niall nudges at Harry’s feet. ‘What a drama queen. What’s so different about my candles to Harry’s, anyway?’

Harry goes so red Niall wonders if he’s having a hot flush, or coming down with a sudden bout of fever. Ptolemy sighs deeply and rests his head on his paws. ‘Why are you so thick? For a talented wizard, you lack so much common sense,’ he says condescendingly.

Niall’s known him too long to get upset about the comment, so he just shrugs and slurps his tea loudly, knowing the cat finds it vulgar.

‘There’s nothing different. Not really,’ Harry’s saying slowly, but his cheeks are heating up even as he says it and he’s not quite meeting Niall’s eyes.

‘Haven’t you been feeling any differences at all, Niall?’ asks Ptolemy slyly, slinking his way up the bed to lie down over Harry’s thighs. Harry twitches and drips tea down to stain the white sheets.

Honestly, Niall hasn’t even thought about it that much. Humming, he tips his head back and forth, eyes going up to focus on the centre of the ancient, tented, purple net canopy over Harry’s bed. Harry did a good job of cleaning the room up when he moved in, although he’s left a few original features (like the net canopy, an addition by a great, great aunt some time during the Victorian period) Niall would have used a strong burning spell on.

‘Told you it was too subtle,’ Ptolemy says loudly, flicking his tail at Harry.

Harry nearly combusts, filling his cheeks with tea and looking over Niall’s shoulder at a table full of peach candles.

There’s a pregnant pause, during which Harry swallows very loudly and has to gasp to catch his breath.

‘I mean apart from – I’ve been feeling a bit more – but, it’s been a while and I just thought that was natural,’ Niall stutters, as Harry sinks back into his pillows like he’d love to sink down through the floor and then further into the ground.

‘I told you he was too sex-obsessed before,’ Ptolemy carries on, snickering and smoothing his whiskers with his paws. ‘Harry was worried he might have done something that amounted to a crime, shoving all the sex and love candles in with you,’ he explains to Niall, as Harry carefully leans over to set his mug down and then buries his face in his hands.

Flushed, Niall sort of nods and then shakes his head and then nods again. ‘Not a crime, just, you know, a bit – uncomfortable, sometimes, but don’t worry about it. Had to be somewhere, didn’t they?’

Harry makes a muffled sound that might be agreement.

‘Okay, I’m going to go and shower and then – and then we can get to work. Last day before the holidays and you – you’re going home next Tuesday, right? Good and the candles will all be gone by this afternoon, I’ll help you with sorting the deliveries and we’ll do some transportation charms and it’ll all be back to normal soon enough.’ Niall gets up and paces a bit as he rambles, before all but running out of Harry’s room, leaving the younger man with his head in his hands and a disparaging cat on his lap.

As soon as he’s back in his room, it properly hits him and he can’t believe he didn’t notice it before. The heightened sense of himself and the – the thoughts about Harry, suddenly, flooding his mind like lava fresh from an eruption.

That metaphor goes nowhere good and by the time he’s in the workshop, he’s watching Harry squeeze large puffpeas from their slimy, skin-like pods, bottom lip between his teeth, and wondering if he would suck Niall off quite as well as Niall imagined he did in the shower. Ptolemy, watching them both from the windowsill, seems to know exactly where Niall’s thoughts are drifting as Harry basically wanks the pods off to get the peas out.

Preoccupied as he ensures he is with focusing all of his attention on weaving a warming charm into a pair of crocheted underpants, he misses Harry’s occasional wistful and longing glances his way; and so, Niall wishes Christmas and a brief respite to approach as soon as possible.

[PART FIVE: IN WHICH THERE IS A WELCOME HOME MEAL AND SOME TEARS]

Niall spends Christmas with Ptolemy and the ten Christmas puddings his parents arranged to be delivered, each one infused with a different liqueur. He gets drunk on Green Spot whiskey and lights the cinnamon and wood-smoke candle Harry had left him, presenting it bashfully along with a bottle of the whiskey he loves and some badly-knitted socks with tinkling bells on the ankles. ‘I put a warming charm on them, because I know you have bad circulation,’ Harry had said, casual in the way that he knew these things about Niall.

‘Oh, well, thanks,’ Niall had said aimlessly, watching as Harry hoisted his big, brown leather bag across his body and squatted to scratch Ptolemy behind the ears. The bag had been Niall’s gift to Harry, so that he wouldn’t be trekking back up North with only a ratty old leather backpack and a lot of Tesco bags. It cost him an arm and a leg, nearly five hundred quid, but now he feels like it wasn’t thoughtful enough, even if Harry had hugged him for nearly half an hour after he’d opened it.

‘The candle should give you that Christmas feeling,’ Harry said, as he produced a small wax paper bag from the inside pocket of his camel duffel coat. ‘I used mistletoe berry juice in it. Also some elves’ ear wax, which ... you can’t tell anyone, it’s illegal.’

Niall’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. ‘You’re a resourceful chap,’ Ptolemy murmured, nosing at the wax paper bag. ‘I smell mouse.’

Harry popped the bag open and held out a mouse-shaped little biscuit. ‘Only mouse flavoured. My friend Johnny owns a boutique organic food shop down in London and he came up with this recipe a few months ago, it imitates the flavour of mouse. For companions and familiars.’ Harry refolded the bag once Ptolemy’d pinched the biscuit from his palm and placed it on the hall table. ‘They’re not really for sale yet, but I called in a favour.’

‘I love you,’ Ptolemy said, around a mouthful of biscuit. Niall had been shocked by the lack of manners; Ptolemy’s scratched the back of his hand for talking with his mouth full, before.

Blushing, Harry flapped his hands and around and struggled to his feet, wobbling under the weight of his bag. ‘I’d best be off, the bus goes from the bottom of the hill in ten.’

They hugged, a little awkwardly with Harry’s bag bumping between them and then Harry was gone, in a downpour of winter rain and chill.

‘I thought you might have said something, since he’ll be gone for so long,’ said Ptolemy boredly, jumping up onto the hall table and sending Niall a pointed look.

‘Like what? You’re so irritating,’ Niall had snapped, storming off with a tinkle of his new socks.

A week later, gorged on Christmas pudding and whiskey and breathing in the nostalgic, warm feeling of Christmas from his giant red candle, Niall was a little more misty-eyed. Ptolemy was snoring in amongst his pillows beneath the Christmas tree, rolled onto his back and bloated with mouse-flavoured biscuits. Without Harry about the house, though, it didn’t feel right; no barks of loud, uncontainable laughter or absent-minded singing as he cooked. No bad puns to make Niall crease up with laughter. No one doing the Downward Dog on the main upstairs hallway, basking in the sunlight pouring through the arch window in the morning.

‘I miss him,’ Niall had slurred, pouring the last drop of whiskey from bottle to mouth. Ptolemy just grunted and rolled over.

-//-

Harry arrives back on January 5th, laden down with beige canvas bags bearing the legends of several organic food shops, independent ingredients stores and a rare imports boutique. He’s also got his ratty backpack filled with new clothes, a new pair of green suede boots and some headscarves he breathlessly says he pinched from his grandmother on Boxing Day.

‘I got us enough dragon’s scales to last the year, as well,’ he says casually, as Niall spreads out the loot on the big work table in their studio.

‘Of course you did,’ he laughs, rubbing at his cheek as he stares at the collection of ingredients Harry’s brought him. ‘How much did it all cost? I’ll give you 75%.’

Harry does a hand flap and scrunches his nose. ‘You let me live here rent free and anyway, what’s mine is yours.’ He’s gone a tell-tale pink, wrapping one of his curls around a finger. ‘I get a lot of stuff free, anyway. My ex-girlfriend breeds Pink Heather Dragons up in Scotland and she’s always got loads of scales rattling about from them shedding during summer.’

Niall picks up one of the pale, shimmery pink scales and inspects it; thick and flexible, warm with magic. ‘One dragon scale holds as much magic as a five year old wizard, did you know that?’ he murmurs, smiling as the scale catches the weak afternoon sunlight, casting rainbow flashes of light about the triangular room.

‘I didn’t,’ Harry says, his voice sounding low and stuck in his throat. Niall refocuses on him and flushes at the intense look on his face, almost desperate.

‘We should ... I actually, I booked us a table, at that place The Greenhouse in town you like.’ Niall coughs and scrubs at his cheek again, feeling the burn of afternoon stubble. ‘You’ll want to shower after your journey, I guess.’

Harry’s still staring, still intent, but also more determined now. ‘I do,’ he says firmly, before turning and stomping out of the room, the heels of his boots clacking on the wooden floorboards.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ asks Niall to himself, dropping the pink dragon scale down on top of the rest.

‘No, Niall, you’re just stupid,’ says Ptolemy, sticking his head around the door. ‘I’d like to say I thought you’d just overdone it on the booze this year, but unfortunately you’ve always been this dim. It took you nearly five months to understand Barbara was trying to sleep with you.’

‘Don’t – can we not bring that up,’ Niall hisses, storming out past the wretched feline and down the spiral staircase to the floor below, where his room’s located. Harry’s long disappeared, to his own wing of the house. It was this time last year that Barbara packed up her bags and kissed Niall chastely on the cheek, her lips cold and dry. _I can’t play second fiddle to your business anymore, Niall, and I miss my home_ , she’d apologised.

‘Harry’s not the same,’ Ptolemy’s saying calmly, as he follows Niall into his room and jumps up onto the bed. Grunting, Niall starts to strip off, throwing his clothes at the laundry basket by the bathroom door. ‘He likes it here. He likes you.’

All of a sudden, Niall feels flooded with an angry frustration and he turns on the cat, cheeks hot and throat thick. ‘What do you feckin’ know? You’re a mog, you’re meant to help out with my magic, not give me relationship advice. Harry’s a good assistant and I like having him around, so whatever feelings I might have, it doesn’t matter.’ He’s breathing unevenly at the end of it and his eyes sting.

Ptolemy hisses and his eyes flash violet. ‘Pull your head out of your pig-headed arse, please; until then, I will be rescinding my services,’ he says coldly, before his eyes flash golden and he disappears from the room like grey smoke.

Niall feels his anger drain from him in a rush and he groans, bashing his head against the bedpost.

-//-

Before they leave for The Greenhouse, Harry asks if something’s wrong with the house. He sort of sniffs at the air and rubs his fingers together, looking confused. ‘The airwaves are all wrong,’ he says, sounding upset. ‘Where’s Ptolemy?’

‘We’ll sort it when we get back,’ Niall says hurriedly, pushing Harry out with a hand to the base of his back.

The Greenhouse puts on a variety of types of food, but it’s European on the whole; French, Mediterranean and Spanish. The restaurant itself is actually a large Victorian orangery, attached to a local Victorian manor house that’s owned by the descendant of the Payne family.

Niall’s gotten on well with Liam since he moved to the village with his parents, aged sixteen; similar in age, they attended the same school most young wizards and witches in the county did. Having come from a very strict and traditional Irish institution on the outskirts of Dublin, Niall quickly found himself ahead of the rest of his year group; and instead focused on making friends.

Liam remains one of the best of those friends, comping him a good meal and a nice wine whenever he comes down to the restaurant. That’s become more regular with the arrival of Harry, who loves eating out and especially loves The Greenhouse, with its ornate white iron structure and canopy of fairy lights, along with the towering greenery planted everywhere and the faint smell of oranges permeating the air. Liam loves him, too; especially likes to discuss the importance of Iberico ham and smelly French cheeses when he has the time.

‘I’m worried about the house,’ Harry’s saying in a stressed tone, as he flicks his eyes over the menu and shuts it again. He usually gets the same thing, a poached egg, spinach and cured Iberico ham on toasted granary bread; with a few pinches of Himalayan rock salt on the egg. Niall always has a large ham and pineapple pizza, because Liam’s chef perfectly balances the mix of sweet and salty. ‘Shall we drink a Bordeaux? Or maybe a Riesling.’

‘I fancy Riesling. Don’t worry about the house, Ptolemy probably just got a whisker out of joint,’ he says, placating with a hand absently patting Harry’s. He’s not sure how he’s going to get the fucking cat to straighten this particular whisker out, but he’ll manage it if it kills him. He’ll bribe him with a dinner of fresh rabbit, if he can get Liam to give him one from the kitchens.

Harry chews on his lip and flips his hand to link his fingers with Niall’s. ‘I know the two of you don’t always get on, but he only wants you to be happy,’ Harry says quietly and below the table, he links their ankles.

Niall opens his mouth, not sure what to say, but he’s interrupted by a waitress arriving to take their order. ‘No Liam?’ asks Niall instead, subtly unlinking his hand from Harry’s and wrapping it around his glass of water.

‘He’s out for dinner himself this evening, with Sophia,’ says the girl, smiling at Harry rather than Niall. Her lips are very red and her white shirt, emblazoned with The Greenhouse logo, is unbuttoned further than Niall suspects is regulation. Harry just smiles back at her blandly.

‘Okay, well, if you could bring us a bottle of the Riesling and I’ll have a large ham and pineapple pizza,’ Niall says loudly, unconsciously tightening his ankles around Harry’s.

Beaming, Harry orders his poached egg on toast. ‘Easy on the salt,’ he finishes, handing back both his own and Niall’s menus.

Once the wine’s with them and they’ve both commented on how nice it is, they lapse into comfortable silence. Niall takes in how Harry’s hair’s grown again, left completely loose this evening, curling prettily around his face with a freshly washed shine. He’s wearing one of his hundreds of black t-shirts, this one with a low V-neck showing off his swallows and short sleeves showing off the tattoos on his bicep. As with most of Harry’s tattoos, the work consists of flowers, twined together. The style is soft, blushed with splashes of colour, though the line-work is careful and specific.

‘You’ve never told me what those mean,’ Niall says, gesturing to the arm with his glass.

Harry startles and looks down at it in surprise. ‘No? You don’t want to guess?’ He smiles cheekily and rests his chin in his hand, watching Niall with hopeful eyes.

Niall purses his lips and considers. ‘Jasmine, in the middle, that’s for love,’ he starts and Harry nods, both of them knowing that’s the easiest one. ‘Is that violets, underneath it?’

Harry shakes his head, swallowing his wine, and pulls his arm around to point at the flower Niall was referencing. ‘This is heliotrope, it’s for eternal love, so it’s kind of ... reinforcing the jasmine. This,’ he points to the cloud of pink flowers within the curve of the white jasmine, ‘is myrtle, so that’s true love.’ He sips on his wine and watches Niall scan them.

‘And the one at the bottom?’ Niall points to the cloud of cream and green flowers at the bottom. ‘Cow parsley?’

Harry nods eagerly. ‘Cow parsley to lead the way. So like, all of them together, is to help you find true, eternal love.’ He gulps his wine a little quickly and rubs the toe of his boot against the back of Niall’s calf. ‘I got them and they led me here.’

Niall can’t think of much to say, even though he knows he’s redder than the tomatoes on Harry’s headscarf. ‘Oh,’ he manages to choke out eventually, before they lapse into silence.

They stay silent through the meal, finishing their bottle of wine and ordering another single glass each. Harry still pinches two slices of Niall’s pizza and dribbles cheese down his chin, grinning stupidly; and Niall feels his tension ease up again.

On the walk home, Harry snuggles up into Niall’s side, linking their arms and pressing his cold nose to Niall’s cheekbone until Niall lightly headbutts him away. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he laughs, feeling his stomach light, even despite the huge pizza.

‘You love me though,’ Harry laughs, pouting his lips and leaning back in, nose a cold touch to the corner of Niall’s eye.

‘Yeah, I do,’ Niall sighs, without thinking. He shuts his mouth with a snap and flushes. ‘I mean – ’

‘Can you not take it back?’ asks Harry, sounding small and frustrated. They unlink arms and Harry pulls Niall to face him. They’re stopped just down from the front door of the house, just out of the path that takes them through the small copse of trees from the village. Niall wonders if Ptolemy’s watching, through one of the windows. ‘Why are you so – why don’t you want to want me?’

Niall swallows and takes a step back. Harry looks so welcoming, in the bright moonlight. Cosy in his duffel coat and pink across his cheeks and ready, as ever, to pull Niall in for a hug. His eyes look sad. ‘I’ve made this mistake before,’ Niall says roughly, passing his palm over his eyes. He feels tired, with holding himself back.

‘It’s not a mistake, to fall in love, or to just _like_ someone,’ Harry scoffs, because that’s the kind of person he is; the kind of person Niall was, before Barbara broke his heart a year ago.

‘So what about when it goes south?’ asks Niall exasperatedly, crossing his arms over his chest, bound tight with his own coat and scarf. ‘What about when we both realise it’s over and you have to leave? You’re a really good assistant and I don’t want it to end that way.’

‘You’re making excuses,’ Harry says, sounding upset and looking it, his mouth turned down. ‘I like you a lot. I want you to kiss me. I’ve been pretty sure for some time that you want to kiss me. The only reason it hasn’t happened yet is because you’re so stubborn. Even Ptolemy agrees with me,’ he shouts, stamping his foot and squelching his new boot in the mud. ‘Fuck!’ he shouts, deflating and staring down at the boot miserably. The green suede’s covered in wet mud. ‘Fuck you, my mum bought these for me.’ He turns and starts up the small hill to the house, leaving Niall to trail guiltily behind him.

Indoors, Harry drops his coat on the floor and kicks off his boots, storming up the stairs to his side of the house. Niall stands and watches him go, stomach knotting at the strained sound of a sob echoing about the upper hallways.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he unwraps himself from his winter outerwear and hangs up Harry’s coat, before picking up the boots and carrying them upstairs to the workshop. He’s on the opposite side of the house to Harry and couldn’t hear him even if he wanted to; but he desperately hopes he’s not crying.

‘You’re even more hopeless than previously suspected,’ Ptolemy says acidly, jumping up onto the workbench next to Harry’s boots.

Sighing exasperatedly, Niall turns from where he’s picking ingredients out from the cupboard to frown at the cat. ‘Can you just ... sync us up again, so I can fix these? It’s for him, not me.’ He turns back to the cupboard and picks out a mixing bowl from the bottom shelf.

‘Fine,’ says Ptolemy after a moment and Niall feels the air shift again, raising the hairs on his arms. ‘That’s not going to fix everything though and you know it.’

Niall scratches some basic cleaning markings into the bottom of the bowl with chalk, before dripping elk tears over the top and dolloping in some mixing paste. ‘No, I know,’ he says quietly, stirring with a wooden spoon. ‘I can’t fix the rest though, this’ll have to do.’

Ptolemy doesn’t reply this time, but he stays with Niall through the night, casting a strengthening glow over him as he painstakingly rubs the paste over the muddy boot and washes it off; before repeating. By the time dawn approaches, the green suede is good as new and Niall tiptoes to Harry’s room, opening the door silently.

Harry’s sprawled out on top of the duvet in a jumper and black joggers. Hair splayed everywhere, his face is just visible through the matted curls; his eyes are reddened and purpled over the lids, where the vessels have popped. Swallowing, Niall sets the boots down next to the bed and tiptoes back out.

Back in his own room, he curls up in his own bed and wishes more than ever that his mammy wasn’t currently sailing around the coast of Morocco, because he could really do with some advice.

[PART SIX: IN WHICH THERE IS BREAKFAST, AND SOME JIZZ]

Niall wakes up the next morning with a thumping headache and a warm weight pressed over his torso. The smell of sweetened breakfast tea – too milky, just as he likes it – wars with the day-old shampoo and grease of Harry’s hair, which is currently tickling his chin. On blinking his eyes stickily open, Niall sees a plate of scrambled eggs (again, too milky, just as he likes them) and two slices of toast, slathered in Harry’s dark, homemade ketchup. It’s a surprise, not least because he’d been sure Harry would return him to a diet of seeds, yoghurt and fruit with the end of the Christmas period.

‘Good morning,’ Niall rasps, managing to wrench a hand out from underneath the duvet, to scratch lightly at the back of Harry’s scalp. ‘Can’t say I expected this.’

‘You cleaned my boots,’ Harry says, muffled into the thick padding of Niall’s white and grey-striped duvet cover. ‘They look nicer than when I got them new.’ He peeks his eyes up and Niall has to tip his chin down into his neck to meet them.

‘Least I could do,’ he says gruffly, after a moment too long. ‘My mammy taught me that one, anyway; says she needed something strong with a tearaway like me. Always coming home like a swamp monster.’ He’s rambling a bit, so he shuts up and starts to squirm into a sitting position. Harry dislodges without complaint, rolling to the side and clambering to his knees in order to fetch Niall’s plate.

They sit in comfortable silence, but for the slurp and chomp of Niall eating. Harry curls up against the headboard and sips on a mug of hot blackcurrant (‘I’m detoxing from caffeine until March,’ he explains sagely), expression pleased and pinked whenever Niall makes a particularly impressed or satisfied noise over the food.

‘You make the best scrammy eggs,’ he says around a mouthful and Harry beams, nearly exploding out of his own skin with it, as he leans forward to catch a smear of ketchup from the corner of Niall’s mouth with his thumb.

‘Better than your mammy?’ he asks, accenting ‘mammy’ the way Niall does it.

‘As good as,’ Niall admits thickly, crossing his fork and knife over the plate and sighing. ‘You look better in her scarves, though.’

Harry snorts and sits back again, humming at the angle of his back on the pillow. ‘I’m sorry about last night, I didn’t mean – it’s not a big deal,’ he says, eyes closed against the early rays of weak winter sunshine coming through the gaps of Niall’s curtains.

Swallowing again, Niall takes him in, in all his early-morning glory; bedhead hair escaping from the bun tied at the back of his head and still a little sleep-flushed, smelling strongly of sweat and salt and tomatoes. He’s wearing thermal leggings in grey and a large, green cashmere jumper Niall thinks might be his Da’s. It’s a huge deal, Niall thinks desperately; and he can see it’s got Harry down, in the slope of his back and the absence of his dimples.

‘I looked up some remedies for your back, over Christmas,’ he says instead, his voice tight and sore in his throat. ‘I thought we could try them out?’

Harry’s eyes flick open again and he beams, leaning in to kiss Niall on the cheek. ‘You’re the best,’ he says, sounding, at least, content.

‘As good as your mummy?’ asks Niall, accenting ‘mummy’ in the slow, affectionate way Harry sometimes lets slip out, rather than ‘mum’.

‘As good as,’ Harry smirks.

-//-

Business is so booming over the next couple of weeks, both of them seem to forget the tension of their reunion in favour of sleep and cosy, platonic cuddles once the shop’s closed for the day. Harry’s up to his elbows in candle wax, as well as shampoos, conditioners and a moisturiser he reveals he makes for his mum and sister, which consists of a lot of plant extracts, particularly aloe, and something he calls Mugwuff sweat.

‘What in fuck’s name is a Mugwuff?’ asks Niall, sure that Harry must be making it up.

‘You can only find them in Cheshire,’ Harry pants, as he stirs the vat of moisturiser with one arm thrust to the bottom, sleeve rolled up to his shoulder. Niall’s gaze gets stuck on the tanned, muscled round of it and he scoffs, tipping his eyes to the ceiling.

‘It’s true!’ Harry whines, standing up and letting the moisture drip from his arm. ‘Mum has one, she’s called Dina. They look like those bald cats, but their skin is really, really smooth. It’s because of this property in their sweat, which keeps them moisturised and protected against the elements, right? So it’s great in moisturiser. If you know how, it’s easy to sit with them and siphon it off; plus you don’t need much in the potion to get results.’

He suddenly smiles, devious, and launches himself forward to smear the residue on his hand all over Niall’s face. With a squeal, Niall lands on his back, Harry straddling him with a palm over his nose and his arse on his groin. ‘Geroff!’ Niall tries to say, with his mouth smushed sideways by the heel of Harry’s palm.

‘Can you feel how soft my hand is?’ asks Harry on a laugh, starting to massage the moisturiser into Niall’s skin. It’s actually very soothing and Niall can already feel it seeping, cool and refreshing, into his pores; but softer, is the weight of Harry’s bum on his dick, especially when he shifts slightly and kind of – grinds.

‘Are you doing that on purpose?’ Niall asks hotly, pushing ineffectually at Harry’s thigh to the side of his waist.

‘Of course I’m doing it on purpose Niall,’ says Harry, clearly not understanding what Niall’s talking about. He rolls his eyes and takes his hand away, leaning back into the cradle of Niall’s hips.

Niall goes bright red, at about the same moment Harry’s eyes go wide and his mouth pops open. ‘Niall!’ he shouts, slapping both of his hands over his eyes. ‘My innocence!’

‘Oh, shut your mouth! Innocent my right ball!’ Niall groans, thumping his head back onto the wooden floor. Tipped back like this, he can see Ptolemy curled up in his warm spot underneath the work bench, watching them both with ill-concealed distaste. ‘Get off, Harry.’

‘Feels more like you need to get off,’ Harry says slyly and Niall bucks his hips, hard enough that an unsuspecting wizard’s assistant topples to the side, arms flailing.

‘Your mating rituals astound me,’ Ptolemy drawls, slinking out from under the work bench and nudging his nose against Harry’s hand, flat against the floor where he’s sprawled out. He’s been begging for more petting lately, since Harry started making this moisturiser; it has to be stirred by hand, Harry claims firmly, in order to let your magic seep into it naturally, activating the ingredients. Ptolemy apparently appreciates the results.

‘It’s not a mating ritual,’ Harry drawls back to the cat, petting at his head; his palm flattens the feline’s ears and drags down hard, eliciting a deep, bone-thrumming purr. Harry catches Niall’s eyes and smirks, not entirely without frustration. ‘Mating rituals usually work.’

Niall tries to adjust himself in his jeans with some dignity, twisting his torso away from Harry and shooting him an exasperated look. It’s the most blatant Harry’s been, since their argument and relieved making-up before the New Year’s work began. Niall had, clearly mistakenly, thought he was out of the woods; and if he hadn’t been as relieved by that as he thought he would be, well, that was being an adult for you. You didn’t always get what you wanted, but you had to realise when you were doing the right thing.

‘Well,’ Ptolemy purrs, curling his body up into the warm space between Harry’s armpit and chest, ‘I assume sex candles, affection potions and beauty enhancements usually work too, but Niall is rather special.’

Sputtering, Niall sends Harry an incredulous look; he had only known about two of those (because honestly, he’s a trained wizard, he can spot someone making themselves emit “natural” radiance a mile off). ‘Affection potions?’ he squeaks and Harry ducks his head behind Ptolemy’s not inconsiderable bulk of midsection.

‘Only the once!’ he whines, peeking out over Ptolemy’s grey fur. ‘Like, right at the beginning, in one of my batches of ketchup.’

Niall heaves himself to his feet, any remnants of arousal vanished. ‘That’s not allowed,’ he huffs, brushing crushed fairy wing from the seat of his jeans. ‘It’s not very you, either,’ he adds, affecting a wounded expression.

Harry visibly wilts, looking embarrassed. ‘Ptolemy told me to do it,’ he grumbles, shoving at the bulk of the large grey cat.

‘Indeed I did,’ Ptolemy says, unbothered. He peeks one golden eye towards Niall reproachfully. ‘But alas, here we remain, with only our material goals achieved.’

Rolling his eyes, Niall aims a kick towards the ungrateful mog and succeeds in forcing him to scarper. ‘Who took you in, eh? Who said they’d feed you, even though the space between your ears was just seawater and gobbledegook?’ He huffs again and turns back to his worktop, aimlessly sorting through the sheaves of orders as he mumbles to himself. ‘No bloody thanks though, no!’ he grumbles, scratching a note next to an order for six vials of Up-All-Night (far too likely to end in an overdose, he doesn’t know what some of these teenagers are thinking; let alone the older men).

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says quietly, coming to his side and leaning his head on Niall’s shoulder. ‘Honest, I only did it the once and it didn’t work anyway. You know my proper potions are all crap.’ He smiles self-deprecatingly up at Niall, who hates himself for melting so easily at it.

‘They’re not crap and the potions you do are proper, idiot,’ he says gruffly, nudging Harry off. He leans with his palms flat on the wooden top, eyes focusing on the flickering flame of his talent- enhancing candle. He remembers the look of shy pride on Harry’s face when he’d presented it to Niall, all those months ago, and how Niall’s stomach had turned into a jumping bean even then.

Behind him, Harry makes a worried noise and his large, warm hands come up to knead at Niall’s shoulders. ‘Holy Grail, Niall, you’re so tense,’ he mutters, fingers digging into the knots at the base of his neck. ‘Let me – just hold still,’ he says, sounding distracted. Niall does as he’s told, shivers and winces passing over his face at the slight sting of Harry’s massage. All at once, he feels something go through him; white hot and cold at the same time, it feels like, and he makes a long moaning sound, flopping forwards.

‘What the fuck?’ he asks, lips mashed to the wood beneath his face. It tastes like magic; stale and metallic.

‘Did it work? Do you feel better?’ Harry asks, sounding nervous.

Niall can’t move; he feels so relaxed he might become comatose. ‘I think – yeah, I think it worked,’ he laughs, struggling to push himself back up. His muscles feel loose as cooked noodles and his vision’s gone blurry with relieved tears. ‘Christ alive, Styles, what did you do? I feel like a bairn.’ Finally managing to turn, he blinks the dampness in his eyes away to find Harry looking apologetic, but also proud.

‘Just a little massage technique I learnt while I was staying in Kiev a year back,’ he says demurely, messing about with his hair to avoid meeting Niall’s eyes.

‘Well, fuck me!’ says Niall, deliberately not blushing when Harry’s eyes widen. ‘That was strong, well done.’

Harry nearly melts to the floor and Niall instinctively gives him a hug, drawing him in and giving his back a rub, because praise sometimes overwhelms Harry. He’s loud and obnoxious, as much as Niall is, but Niall’s come to realise he also desperately seeks approval and validation. He’s like a caramel surprise on the inside; gooey and vulnerable and very sweet. Moreish, Niall thinks, letting the metaphor continue as Harry moves back and presses their mouths together.

Very moreish indeed, Niall thinks helplessly, as he fists a hand in Harry’s hair and tugs it gently. He’s not wearing a scarf and he’s not got it tied up in a bun; it’s just loose curls and ringlets, free to be twisted up in Niall’s fingers, so that he can press the pads to Harry’s skull.

‘We really shouldn’t,’ Niall starts to say, lips still attached to Harry’s. With a dissatisfied noise, Harry uses the movement to slide their mouths more firmly together. His lips, inside, are hot and wet; slick as they slide over Niall’s and drag his own with them.

‘We really should,’ Harry counters, sucking on Niall’s bottom lip slowly and nudging their noises together with a pleased hum.

Niall wonders if there’s something in the moisturiser, as he pushes Harry back towards the wall next to the door, pressing him up against it and tugging his head back with the fist still tangled in his hair. Harry lets out the filthiest moan Niall’s ever heard and he can’t help but laugh disbelievingly, just before he ducks his head to suck a harsh kiss into the stretched skin over Harry’s Adam’s apple.

‘I’ve wanted to kiss you forever,’ Harry says, voice thick, as Niall bites over his jaw, none to carefully. ‘I’ve wanted you forever.’

‘Same,’ Niall manages to grit out, right before he presses their mouths together again, a hot, wet and messy slide of saliva and lips that goes on for what feels like hours, ebbing and flowing between steamed-up gasps and hitched moans. Harry’s legs spread slightly around Niall’s and he grinds into his thigh, making a pleased noise when Niall catches on and presses in tighter, body stiff and rigid for Harry to roll into. Their mouths stay open around each other, trading breaths as they rub up against each other’s bodies.

Harry’s hands, palms warm and slightly unsteady, run down Niall’s sides and up under his t-shirt, skimming over his heated, sweaty skin, before they run back down to cup around his arse and hips, tugging him in until there’s no space between them. Niall can feel the hard line of Harry’s dick against his thigh and the crease of his hip; and his own presses against Harry’s, thick and restricted in his jeans and boxers, though it feels good just to be this close to someone, again.

‘Next time I wanna suck you off,’ Harry says, before sucking dirtily over Niall’s tongue and ducking his head to suck on his pulse point, promising.

‘Fuck,’ Niall groans and he uses the hand slapped uselessly over Harry’s hip to tug his thigh up around his hip, rocking his hips faster and pulling Harry’s breathless moans into his mouth. His dick feels heavy and – ready, he thinks incredulously, he’s probably going to actually come like this.

‘We can fuck, too,’ Harry laughs out, reaching a hand down between them to press his palm over the lump of Niall’s crotch. The dip of his hand presses over the wet spot, right where the head was pressing into the cut of Harry’s hip, and he bites Harry’s lip, hard.

‘Gonna come,’ he grunts and Harry whines, leaning back and giving himself over to Niall’s insistent body, rutting his own hips desperately as the heat of his orgasm rises from the curl of his toes to the tightness of his balls. ‘Fuck, I love you,’ Niall says without thinking, as he bites Harry’s earlobe and watches his face break apart like sunlight through the clouds, blissful in his orgasm. The tight coil in Niall’s own stomach releases like a bomb and he comes with a pained gasp, wetness flooding his boxers and his dick twitching as he presses it into the hard bone of Harry’s pelvis, hand still clutched tight around the softness of his thigh.

They stand silently, trousers damp and slimy and getting cold, for what feels like five minutes after. Harry pants softly and Niall breathes heavily into his sweaty neck, shellshocked.

‘I love you, too,’ Harry says eventually, turning his head to try and meet Niall’s eyes. He can’t, because Niall’s still buried in his skin and damp, loosened curls. ‘Say something,’ he says after a moment, more insistent. ‘Your jizz’s seeped out onto my hand through your jeans, Niall, say something.’

With a gasp like a scuba-diver coming up for air, Niall pulls back and stares at him, with his bright pink cheeks and eyes more black than green, lips swollen and red and – ‘Yeah, I love you, I meant it,’ he says, feeling it like a prayer in his bones. ‘Fucking love you a lot, even if you do make me eat natural yoghurt, and have me doing silly poses out in the garden in all weathers. Even if you fill my house up with stinking candles that make me horny as fuck,’ he laughs, dropping his forehead to meet Harry’s, who’s smiling like a marshmallow over a fire.

‘Even if I wear all your Mammy and your Da’s clothes?’ he asks, sounding a bit shy, even as he’s beaming so much his dimples are deep as the sea.

‘Especially then,’ Niall says seriously, before he closes his eyes and kisses Harry again.


End file.
